Game Over

 261.

Unblinkingly I watch as the door slowly opens. On the periphery to my left I see Drysdale, his head and shoulders strobing on and off red, slightly behind the beat of the overhead neon sign, and to my right, the vague, obscure shadow of Mustang peeking around the furthermost corner of the Motel's stucco structure. From the room a light-skinned male, large frame, black hair, white shirt, rumpled sport coat and barefoot, exits the room and enters our kill zone. Drysdale has his weapon out and up. He stands less than fifty feet away. Mustang has the three. In our haste to respond to the dynamics of the situation we were unable to 'com-up', to establish radio communication among ourselves, the sensory handicap equivalent of going in blind. I am watching this unfold as Mutt calls to inform me that they have located what appears to be the abandoned van, carrying, his best guess, a lethal payload of fortified industrial fertilizer and ammonium nitrate, the same mix used in the first bombing. Additionally they have been able to evacuate the area in a radius protecting approximately 80% of the civilians in the projected blast zone, a percentage that, he tells me, increases with every passing second.

"Outstanding work mate, it appears that we are about to engage with the hostiles, so please stand by, we're operating on intel that we have almost the same, 80%, probability that we have jammed, or otherwise disabled, both primary and secondary trigger mechanisms. I would prefer that we conduct a live test some other time and take the two, along with the smoking gun, alive. Looks like we'll know in a very few minutes."

The barefoot perp, as I interpret his movements, is completely oblivious to the nearness of his meet-up with his maker. He is leaning on the stair rail, wrists and ankles crossed, taking pensive puffs on a cigarette, more artist than arsonist. As if shaken from a dream he does a left-to-right scan of the vehicles in the parking area. I freeze in the back seat, head low, watching him once-over the lot full of rental cars and out-of-state SUVs. Satisfied, he repeats the technique to his left along the walkway and finally all the way right, towards the Motel office. I slowly turn my head to see what he sees, knowing Drysdale's exposure and breathe in relief when I see that he has ducked behind a large domed trash receptacle, the neon light flashing his tell-tale shadow along the walk with each cycle. It appears to me that the perp is trying to unfold the shadow mystery when he is called back into the room by someone I trust to be Cyrus.

In an altogether graceless and clumsy maneuver, I half roll to the front seat and start the engine. As they exit their room I immediately recognize Cyrus from our first meeting outside of Reno. He and his accomplice are hurrying towards a Mercedes sedan, each with a hastily prepared small suitcase in one hand and muffled heaters in the other. It pains me to notice that they are both right-handed.

"Fucking bitch," I hear Cyrus wail, "sold us out. Jammed the line and I can't reach Bartowsky."

With my left arm crossed to put the rig in drive and my left foot on the accelerator I cover the fifteen feet of separation in a flash, crushing the front bumper of the Mercedes and pinning the getaway car in place. From behind its open front door Cyrus begins to unload the capacity of his handgun into my bulletproof windshield, unaware that he is being closed in on from both sides. His accomplice decides to run for it and gets three steps past the staircase where he is blind-sided and tripped by Drysdale, his pistol sliding down the walkway with the unmistakable decay of steel on stone. Cyrus is changing clips and watching his reduction of force, when, still hiding beneath the dash, I hear Mustang voice from his back side that his game is over:

"Homeland Security, drop the gun, NOW."

From my radio I confirm the take-down to Julie, Mutt, Davis and The Queen.